


Archer's Voice

by Kestrel337



Series: Family of Choice [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kidfic, Other, Parentlock, mentions of minor character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-26 00:37:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Penelope Watson had been alive for eighteen months. The same amount of time, within a few days, that John Watson had been a widower. And the same amount of time that Archer Watson had been a silent little boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Archer's Voice

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I own nobody except my original child characters (and they’d tell you differently anyway). No disrespect is intended and no money made by this writing.
> 
> 2) Almost certainly not going to be season three compliant. 
> 
> 3) Hollywood Medical Miracles. 
> 
> 4) Yes, I have written a ‘verse with John having married and lost Mary Morstan. Don't like? Don't read.
> 
> 5) Written for the Sherlockmas Summer Prompting Fest 2013.
> 
> 6) No beta, no brit pick. Obsessively edited by me.

Penelope Watson had been alive for eighteen months. The same amount of time, within a few days, that John Watson had been a widower. And the same amount of time that Archer Watson had been a silent little boy. 

Sherlock Holmes had lived in 221C for seventeen months. In that time he had seen Poppy learn to crawl, to walk, to use baby-signs, and to talk. He had seen Archer learn to identify everyone in their unusual ‘family’ with name-signs, and develop a system of sign language and mime to communicate with that family. Sherlock himself had learned how to bathe a toddler, how to change a nappy, how to make chicken nuggets that were cooked enough for health but cooled enough for eating. He had abandoned crime scenes when Greg could not, when John was on shift, picking up Lestrades and Watsons from daycare and dropping them at “Gran Hudson’s”. 

It had taken him three years of false death to tear down the Moriarty syndicate; The Watson network had been built up in half that time, but at a much higher cost. 

This Friday had been a shared dinner, Lestrades and Watsons and Sherlock jumbled together with trays and highchairs and takeaway boxes. Molly and and Greg had just carried a raging Olivia and indignant Roxie down the steps, trailing harried farewells behind them and apologizing when Mrs. Hudson popped out to make sure all was well. 

Now John directed his three year old assistant in the washing up, filling the flat with the splash and clatter of silverware. Sherlock had learned the rhythm of their conversations -silence, while Archer’s hands asked questions, followed by John’s voice. The surgeon’s fingers had proven as deft as Sherlock’s own, quickly becoming fluent in the most basic signs in an effort to stimulate his son’s language development.

A soft patting at his knee drew Sherlock’s attention down and down, into Poppy’s hopeful eyes. “dwaw time?” she asked.

“Shall we do your pyjama’s first?”

“Otay.” She gave him a stern look, pointed an imperious finger. “No up, Sh-wok. My do.” She defended her right to navigate the steep staircase without help. Hands and knees, rather than feet and railing; a tell-tale sign that the evening had worn down even this dynamo. He and Poppy made quick work of getting her into her favorite sleeper and setting her portion of the bedroom to rights.

Downstairs, John had covered the coffee table with a roll of paper, set out the markers and crayons. He and Archer were engaged in their nightly calm-down period, which also served as a chance for ‘attentive conversation’ for Archer. The therapist had been quite insistent that they give him opportunities to express his thoughts in whatever method he preferred. It was essential that he believe he would be heard, she’d said, if they wanted him to speak. Privately, Sherlock thought it was so much nonsense. As if anyone had ever turned the boy away; his lively chatter had been the focus of nearly everyone’s attention until it vanished with Mary’s death. He kept these thoughts to himself. Discretion had been a hard lesson, and one which he applied only in certain very specific cases. 

He and Penelope settled at their end of the paper. She picked up a red crayon, announced “Gween!” and began scribbling, only to be distracted by Archer tapping the table. He pointed to her crayon, then crooked an index finger in front of his lips. _red_

Sherlock and John kept silent, fighting the urge to facilitate the conversation; Poppy knew well enough what Archer was saying. 

“Otay, wed.” Poppy agreed, and yawned. A few minutes later she was knuckling at her eyes, and resting her head on the table. John gathered her up.

“Bedtime for someone, I think. Archer, go get your story. I’ll be right down.”

“I’ll get it started, John. Take your time.” Sherlock told him. 

Archer scrambled to get the book, a favorite title that John and Lestrade had wagered Sherlock would refuse to touch after two readings. If he hadn’t overheard their little bet, he probably would have. Instead, he’d risen to the challenge of giving the best and most dramatic readings anyone could have wanted, thus ensuring he became the go-to reader for that and all similar titles. 

Sherlock decided to try an American accent this time. “Hi, I’m the bus driver. Listen...” 

The ceiling creaked with John’s footsteps and the baby monitor in the kitchen crackled into life. Mary’s favorite Bach cantata tripped merrily out of the music box that had been Sherlock’s gift when Archer arrived.

Soon John was settling in his own armchair. If he was amused to see Sherlock’s acting skills used in the reading of a picture book, well, amused at least came with something resembling a fond smile. Smiles had been a rare commodity since Mary’s death, but were coming a bit more frequently lately.

The story rolled onward, Archer shaking his head and grinning as he repeatedly responded to the text. “Please?” whined Sherlock. The pause was built into the narrative, but Sherlock let it stretch out beyond the point when most adults would have moved on. 

Archer emphasized his vigorous head shaking with a smack to the chair arm and a wide grin.  
“No!” A small, emphatic sound. A word they’d heard all too frequently before the silence fell.

Sherlock froze, his scalp prickling. 

“Archer?” John, unblinking, barely breathed the word.

Sherlock strove to keep his voice even as he repeated the request. 

“Please?” Petulant and pleading.

“NO!” Rough, raw, but a bit louder. Archer’s voice. 

Sherlock saw in his peripheral vision that John was leaning forward in his chair, wide eyed. Come on, Archer. Third time lucky, isn’t that what they say? 

“Pleeeaaasssee?” Sherlock begged in his best ‘American pigeon’ voice.

“No! No!” This time, the vehement denial was followed by a wheezing giggle. 

A shuddering breath was dragged out of John, ignored by the boy who was prodding at the book so Sherlock would finish the story. Only when the last page had been read did Sherlock dare to look at his friend.

“I suppose it’s too late to call his therapist tonight, but you should write it down. She’ll want to know first thing...no, he has an appointment tomorrow, doesn’t he? You can tell her then.” He handed the book to Archer, lifted him off his lap. “How about you read it again? With your dad?” Regular bedtime routines could be dispensed with under these circumstances, surely. 

John surreptitiously wiped his eyes, extended his arms to his son. “How about it?” 

Archer nodded, stopped, and raised a hand to his own throat. His eyes narrowed, his lips tightening with effort. He managed a grunt, an airy ‘eeeehhh’, a sibilant ‘ssss’. He took a deep breath, tried again, and this time managed a more recognizable ‘uh-esss’. Then he looked at his father, extended a raised thumb and elevated his eyebrows. _good?_

John huffed out a broken laugh. “Very good” he agreed. He opened the book, and began. “Hi! I’m the bus driver…”.


End file.
